Try the Eggs
by Polgaria
Summary: “You are the meeting Andrea. And this is important.” A ficlet concerning the plague of the fashion industry: starvation. Canon MOVIE. PLEASE R&R- feedback is always welcome.


Miranda Priestly, the platinum goddess of Runway, was in desperate need of a grande double skim no foam extra hot latte. It didn't matter that she'd already consumed three of the aforementioned beverages that day. Christ. She lived off of them. Sometimes the fashionista wondered if the magazine would go to print at all without the aid of scalding espresso, burning her throat all the way down. Miranda decided five years into her now two decade reign that she didn't want to find out.

Which was why at this moment she was silently cursing her usually efficient, uber assistant, Ms. Andy Sachs. With a restless sigh, she began to prowl her office, mindlessly straightening and re-straightening the high-art photos that lined her otherwise pristine walls. If she were being honest with herself, which was a rare occurrence for the career driven beauty, Miranda Priestly was worried. If hell suddenly froze over, complete with kitschy ceramic nativity, Miranda Priestly would admit to herself that she was worried about Andrea.

Miranda looked down from her window to the street below, at the scrambling mess of people hurrying in and out and in front of taxis, across streets and through the gilded doors of Elias-Clark. She tried searching for the mass of chestnut locks floating over the deep turquoise coat she knew Andrea had worn that day.

If the virgin Mary in the nativity scene- in hell frozen over- was a small figurine of Miranda Priestly, the anxious woman would have asked herself why she remembered what coat Andrea had left the building in.

Miranda sat back at her desk, one leg draped elegantly over the other as she glared at Emily in the outer office. The young Englishwoman, who was obviously trying like hell not to make eye contact, gave the faintest hint of an oblivious shrug. _Search me_, Miranda read. Emily hadn't a clue where Andrea was, that much was obvious. Miranda wondered if the crass young woman even cared.

Somewhere in the back of Ms. Priestly's overworked brain, a small nativity figurine bearing a striking resemblance to her own visage began to make a snowman. In hell, frozen over of course.

Miranda was getting frustrated. She tried to tell herself it was only because Andrea was keeping her needlessly waiting, but there was more to it. Sweet fucking Dolce and Gabbana there was more. She pinched the bridge of her nose, futilely attempting to ward off a burgeoning headache. There was something going on with that girl, and Miranda couldn't quite get a handle on it. And god knew Miranda Priestly had to have a handle on everything.

Andrea was doing her job, and doing it excessively well. Most of the time. But with increasing frequency, the young woman was slipping up. It was never anything important, not that the infamous Ms. Priestly would indulge even the smallest mistake…but there it was. And then there was the young woman's demeanour. Weeks passed, and Andrea became unusually introverted- listless, even. Her eyes were haunted. Every so often, the girl would force an intense glamour of attentiveness around herself, Miranda knew, but only because she was the sole beneficiary of what seemed to be that enormous effort. Miranda, somewhere in the recesses of her unequivocal brilliance, realised that why she received this exclusive perk wasn't because she was editor in chief. No. Something was wrong with Andrea, and that something was going to have to be dealt with. By her.

Suddenly, the object of Miranda's intense, if denied musings rushed into the Runway executive office, laden heavily with Starbucks.

"Where in god's name have _you _been?" Miranda inquired slowly, acerbically as the young woman entered her office.

Andy willed brightness into her glassy, tired eyes. "I'm so sorry Miranda, I don't know what took so long. I was-"

Miranda forestalled the excuse with a noncommittal wave of her hand. Andy shut her mouth, still clutching the tray of coffee like a lifeline.

"Latte," the older woman directed, gesturing impatiently towards the steaming beverages. Andrea jumped to life again, removing the scalding cup from the tray and placing it with a trembling hand on the editor's desk.

"Is there anything else I can do for you Miranda?" the young woman asked, almost hopefully. Perhaps the girl simply enjoyed torturing herself.

Miranda lithely reached for the cup and slowly bringing it to her chest, relaxed into the chair. With at least one facet of her day returning to normal, the couture clad powerhouse looked intently at her second assistant, as if willing the girl to metamorphose into some legible explanation of her private riddle. Andrea stood, slipping in and out of that frightening willingness, almost as if she were moving in and out of consciousness. Some imperceptible movement was making it difficult to look at the girl and Miranda realised with deeply burried compassion that the Andy was actually swaying on the spot. In fact, some wily intuition told Miranda quite clearly that Andrea Sachs was about to faint.

With an urgency that irreparably cracked the editor's icy demeanour, the older woman almost leapt from her chair.

Miranda Priestly, a lump forming quickly in her throat, was shattered when she realised how easily she carried the young woman's nearly weightless frame to the floor.

Emily, who had gleefully been watching the earlier parts of the doomed interaction, looked on in confusion as some completely unreadable expression passed across Miranda's usually aloof features. When the editor hastily stood from her chair and rushed towards the crumpling figure of the second assistant, the young brit nearly swallowed her tongue. And when Miranda, kneeling on the floor and cradling the unconscious woman's head in her lap directed her in a panicked screech to call an ambulance, Emily did precisely what she was told.

By the time the attendants had reached the higher levels of Elias-Clark, Miranda was in a barely concealed fit. Nigel, who had been summoned directly after the paramedics, was squatted down at Miranda's right side, murmuring to her in hushed tones as the woman absently brushed the soft bangs away from Andy's still closed eyes. She didn't appear to be taking what Nigel was saying well.

As a young EMT set diligently about checking the unconscious woman's vitals, Andrea's eyes slowly fluttered open. In dismay, Andy gazed at the chaos surrounding her, and when some strange force pulled her focus upwards, the young woman found herself looking directly into the strangely pained blue eyes of Miranda Priestly. With a mixture of elation and dread, Andy realized that the soft warmth beneath her head was in fact the older woman's lap. Somewhere along the quest for Miranda's elusive approval, Andy noticed, things had gotten entirely out of hand. Instead of wondering why the dread editor was holding her, why the soft fingers were still methodically stroking her forehead, Andy Sachs was rapidly producing a plan to diffuse this situation. Struggling to right her uncooperative body, the young woman donned the goofiest grin she could manage and waved the paramedics insistently away.

"Jeez guys," she offered derisively, "who died?"

One of the attendants, an earnest looking young man, quirked an eyebrow at her. "You fainted miss, your boss called the ambulance."

"Yeah," Andy offered glibly. "Sorry about all this. I skipped breakfast this morning and then I ran up here, and this office is so _frigging_ hot. I guess it all got the better of me. Sorry for the false alarm, all, but I'm totally fine."

The young man looked at her somewhat dubiously, and Andy launched her final tactic. With her large, doe eyes switched on to full man-melting capacity, she touched the young man's hand reassuringly. "Honest. I'm feeling much better, and truth be told, I will kiss the first person who can bring me an onion bagel. I'm starving."

Miranda was watching this scene unfold with a mixture of pride at the girls audacious manipulation, and a searing need to pull Andrea back onto her lap until the attendants could strap her to a stretcher and field her to the nearest hospital. It was with shock that Miranda realised the young woman was trying to minimize all of this for her sake. While the striking editor in chief appreciated the loyalty of this move, at some point something had to come before Miranda Priestly's public image. Didn't it?

Andy chose that moment to glance back towards Miranda with a look that plainly stated, _trust me. _Miranda, who was at the moment suffering a vicious moral battle, could trust one thing. She could trust the one true statement Andy had made. _I'm starving._

The ambulance attendants had finished packing up their equipment and were on their way out. Emily was manning the desk again, and the office full of concerned employees was gradually beginning to empty. Andy who was now sitting in one of the two leather chairs which flanked the front of Miranda's desk was dutifully ignoring the bagel which was sitting in front of her, though, true to her word she had actually kissed the young man from the art department who had appeared, as if by magic, with the requested item in tow.

Nigel, after several pointed directions from Miranda, had also left the executive office and was quickly making his way through every department, disbanding each rumour concerning the second assistant's 'so-called collapse' as he encountered it.

Which left Miranda, quarrelling with her conscience in the far corner of the office, casting the occasional furtive glance in Andrea's direction. The girl was already slumping slightly in the expensive chair, her eyes distant and dull. And that was when Miranda Priestly made an executive decision. Without a second thought, the older woman purposefully strode across the office and stopped so close that Andy could smell her boss's exotic perfume.

In a hushed tone only Andrea could hear, Miranda delivered her directive. "In the next ten minutes, Andrea, I am going to be more incorrigibly rude to you than I have ever been. If you wish to continue your poorly executed denial that anything is wrong with you, you will stand up, follow me, and take it."

Andy's head snapped up at Miranda's words, and with an inhuman reserve of strength, the young woman stood and followed the ferocious editor out of her office.

"Coat. Bag," Miranda barked, pausing briefly as the ginger woman dashed to the closet to retrieve the desired items. "Emily, have Roy waiting at the entrance. This ridiculous little _drama_ with Andrea has made a train wreck of my entire afternoon, and I have a very important meeting in ten minutes which I cannot afford to miss." She glared at the young brit. "That's all."

As Miranda's first assistant frantically got a hold of the trusted chauffeur, the older woman was already stalking out of the office with Andy close on her Louboutin clad heels.

As Miranda breezed through the other departments of Runway towards the elevator, Andy made sure she looked alert, competent, and just a little bit panicked. Everyone must see this. She was fine.

Inside the elevator, for Miranda had done the unexpected and insisted that the girl ride down with her, Andy allowed her posture to relax, if only slightly. She was exhausted. No one, save Miranda, must see this.

With uncharacteristic concern, the older woman actually put an arm around the girl's waist to support her, and flinched as she felt only bones under the young woman's thick coat. When the elevator opened, Andy felt the small hand gently withdraw as Miranda Priestly strode out of the lift and clacked towards the exit of Elias-Clark. To Andy's dismay, several of the Runway staff who were also in the lobby approached the pair, their fear of Miranda quelled only by their concern for her second assistant.

"Hey, we heard you collapsed! Are you alright?"

"Andy, why aren't you at the hospital?"

Miranda paused long enough to sweep the gathering crowd with a disembowelling glower. "The idiot girl is fine, tripped over those shoes she still hasn't learned to walk in."

Andy grinned and shrugged her shoulders in consensus. _I'm a klutz_, she emoted as best she could, though deep down she mildly resented the fact that her loss of consciousness in the executive office was being spread around as a balance issue. The first thing she had done after her makeover from Nigel was to spend hours clomping around her apartment in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choos until she could walk in them like she was born with the footwear already attached.

When the two were safely ensconced in the silver body of the swishy town car, each woman let their façade slide. Andy sagged in the deep leather seat, breathing shallowly, and Miranda, because hell had definitely frozen solid sometime earlier that day, took Andrea's hand, pulled it into her lap and held it tightly.

"Where would you like me to drive Ms. Priestly?" came the gentle voice of Roy from the front of the car.

"To the townhouse," she directed, voice barely above a whisper. "Quickly."

Without question, Roy took the car out into traffic and began the short drive to the upper city home. With ten years experience as the personal driver of Miranda Priestly, Roy had seen his share of the woman hiding under what seemed endless layers of emotional blockades, false cruelty and career mania. The way Miranda was with her girls gentle and nurturing. The heated arguments with husbands past, leaving the older woman often in tears. Roy was discrete. It was the only reason he still had this job.

So when Roy slowed the car to a stop in front of the decadence that was the New York city home of the Priestly family, he was the least surprised of anyone, including the editor herself, that Miranda exited the car, moved around to Andy's side, and helped the stumbling girl up the front stairs and into the house.

Andy sat, trembling, in the study of her employer, wondering what the hell was going on. Dimly, she was aware that Miranda was acting strangely, pacing agitatedly in front of the young woman like an anxious wildcat.

"W-what about the meeting, Miranda?" she queried in a small, tired voice. "I thought you said it was important."

The editor abruptly ceased her harried rounds and looked directly into the girl's large, confused eyes. "You _are_ the meeting Andrea. And _this _is important." With no other explanation, Miranda resumed her troubled movement and Andy was left sitting on the settee, shivering.

Miranda knew that she was stalling, willed herself to take some action, but she was at a loss. When she knelt in her office with Andrea's head resting in her lap, Nigel had imparted some valuable knowledge to the striking, silver-gilt woman.

"She's done this for you, you know," he had said obliquely. Miranda had felt a nauseating guilt filling her stomach, rising harshly in her throat. She felt it again, now. Chancing a look towards Andy, she noticed the girl was shaking uncontrollably.

"What's wrong, are you cold?"

Andrea nodded mutely, wrapping her dangerously thin arms more tightly around her slight frame. Miranda quickly removed a throw from the nearby chair and wrapped it snugly around this creature who sat quivering and dejected before her. Surprisingly, another wave of compassion swept through the older woman and she sat down beside Andy, her hand resting softly against the girl's leg.

"Why are you doing this, Andrea?"

The girl whipped her head around suddenly, her eyes flashing. "Why do you think?" she spat vehemently.

Miranda resisted the urge to back away from the feral look in the young woman's eyes, taking one of Andy's clammy hands and holding it tightly. Nigel was right. All of those missed meals, the pound after pound that Andrea shed, were all for her. But why? Unbidden, some meaningless insult she'd thrown out months ago leapt to the forefront of her mind. _So I said to myself, go ahead. Hire the smart, fat girl._ There it was, some petty untrue slight she'd forgotten as soon as the words had left her lips. But Andrea had not forgotten. The foolish, open girl had taken her thoughtlessness directly to heart.

"Please- Andy, please tell me."

Shocked at the familiar use of her name, Andy warred with herself. This wasn't supposed happen. She wasn't meant to be sitting here, Miranda's warm figure pressing gently against her. All she had wanted was to please the violent tempus that was Miranda Priestly, all she wanted was to garner the forbidden pride of the older woman that she so desperately craved.

"Miranda," Andy whispered. The girl's breathing hitched in a small sob and Miranda clamped her mouth shut, willing the young woman to continue.

"I only wanted- I just _need_-" Andy was having trouble speaking through the agony rising in her chest. Her voice quivered and tears were spilling warmly down her cheeks.

Miranda watched in wonder as her own hand reached slowly to brush the tears away with trembling fingers. "What?" she asked softly.

Andy steeled herself and looked into the older woman's now gentle blue eyes. "I need you to be proud of me."

Without a thought to the consequences, Miranda pulled what was left of Andy Sachs close against her chest and held her there.

"Andy," she breathed into the girl's unusually brittle hair. "You strange, silly creature. I am in awe of your intelligence, your unwavering integrity, but you need to hear this. Whatever vile _bullshit _has left my mouth and caused you to starve yourself half to death-" Miranda wavered on a precipice of emotional baggage that had been piling up her entire life. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

With that small, laden phrase, Miranda felt the tension flow out of the young woman in her arms. This was better. Not that wiry, defensive coil of energy that Miranda realised had been coming off the young woman in waves for several weeks. This was Andy, the soft, affectionate warmth leaning trustingly against her.

Miranda decided to press her luck. Standing, she took the young woman's hand and led her to the sprawling kitchen and sat her at the table where her girls had eaten breakfast only that morning. Wordlessly, she moved around the space, in the fridge and out, finding a pan, turning on a burner with a soft whoosh of flames.

Andy watched Miranda in awe as the older woman tossed the contents of the pan around with a schooled flick of her wrist. When she returned to the table, Miranda Priestly held a plate full of steaming, fluffy scramble eggs. If Andy hadn't been so terrified by the presence of the food, she would have been impressed.

Miranda put the plate down in front of her second assistant, set a fork down beside the plate, and sat down to wait.

Andrea looked down at the food. Then she looked into Miranda's patient blue eyes. Then she looked at the food again.

"I can't do this."

Miranda understood.

"Andy- I know that the thought of even smelling that food right now feels treacherous. I know that you're torn between trying to survive, and the belief that if you eat even a forkful you'll have betrayed the deepest part of yourself. I understand, sweetheart."

Andrea felt sick with the honesty in Miranda's voice. "When?"

Miranda brushed a shock of silver hair out of her eyes. "When I was younger," she offered, smiling dryly, "and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I grew up reading Runway, idolizing everything about it. I suppose it was only inevitable- but the point is, it shouldn't have been. I know that as editor in chief, it is my responsibility to foster the entire visage of the magazine, and yet I haven't done anything to change the way things were. The way they still are. The pages are still full of emaciated women, all clamouring to be thinnest of them all. I suppose-" she continued, wearily, "I suppose I haven't changed it because I'm afraid. Afraid the change will be too much for the magazine to handle. And I'm afraid that I'll lose my hold on it all."

Andy gazed at Miranda Priestly with surprise etched on her stunning features.

"Anyway," Miranda sighed. "Try the eggs, they won't hurt you."

The older woman watched the girl eye the plate of food sceptically, and when the young woman appeared on the edge of tears again, Miranda pulled her chair up beside Andy's and took the fork from beside the plate. Heaping eggs onto it, she blew the steam away and put the food in her mouth as the young woman watched, her eyes warming again.

"My god, I'm still here," Miranda murmured in mock surprise. Eying the girl up, she filled the fork again, and held it in the air between them. "Please?"

Slowly, Andy leaned forward and took the fork into her mouth. Smiling, Miranda handed the utensil back to the young woman. As she watched the girl slowly negotiating the plate of eggs, she felt a small pain starting in her temples. Smirking, she realised it was a caffeine withdrawal headache.

Andy, who's progress had slowed to a stop, was eyeing Miranda with a question.

"I need espresso- would you like one?"

Andy nodded. "I'm sorry- I can't finish this," she gestured to the plate. "Stomach's not used to it, I guess."

Miranda nodded, and when she bent to get the plate, she found herself looking directly into Andy's now warm, amber eyes. Without warning, she placed a hand at the back of the young woman's neck and brought her small, full lips to Andrea's forehead.

"I'm proud of you," she murmured against the girl's temple.

As Miranda busied herself with the espresso machine, she heard a snort of laughter emanating from Andy's direction. When she turned to look, she found Andrea shaking with mirth, the girls broad grin peeking out from underneath a delicate hand trying to muffle her laughter.

Miranda cocked her head, smirking slightly. "What's funny?"

Andy shook her head. "Something Nigel said-" she croaked through the bubbling laugher. "I guess all I need now is that gold star on my homework at the end of the day. Got any stickers?"

Miranda Priestly bit her lower lip. Then she smiled.

"I'll have to see what I can do."


End file.
